


The Merry-Go-Round of Our Days

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Bickering, Courtship, M/M, Magic As Love Language, Slow Burn, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A withdrawn and secretive book hoarder with too many preconceived notions and a dramatic hot mess of a wizard with a mixed reputation cross paths by way of happenstance, a curse, and the latter's extremely conspicuous walking castle. Excessive fussing and flagrant misuse of magic follow shortly on their heels.In other words, this is Good Omens, the Howl's Moving Castle AU. Bit of Diana Wynne Jones, bit of Ghibli, and quite a lot of things you won't find in either. Things are about to get very whimsically romantic indeed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43





	1. In Which Disruptions Come To A.Z. Fell's Life In Pairs

Regardless of place or circumstance, people have always remained fundamentally _people_ , keen to live lives they could be proud of at their own scale with little need for high stakes or spectacle, and the same was true for the people of Ingary. Talking statues and all-seeing spyglasses and other manifestations of the land's innate magic could tempt and reward the adventurous personality all they liked — any countryman with sense knew to leave that sorcery and its practitioners to their own devices and hope it didn't delay their trains or drive up the price of tea too much. 

So thought the proprietor of A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books, at least. So he told the cluster of disgruntled would-be patrons that he ushered out the front door of his corner bookshop and back out onto the streets of Kingsbury. 

“Terribly sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said to their retreating backs. “ _Unusual Books_ refers less to spellbooks and the like and more to tomes of prophecy and amusing scripture misprints.” At the first sign of shoulders beginning to swivel in interest he realized his mistake and hastily added, “Which are also not for sale, I’m afraid! Eclectic private collection. So sorry to disappoint, out you all go now!”

He locked the door behind them as they left, leaving the shop empty but for himself. That was better, should have done that to begin with. 

The _and Co._ portion of the name on the front sign was a misnomer. He managed and ran the place by himself, had done so long enough to see him from just out of his apprenticeship after university into the upper forties of his years. Being what polite company referred to as a _confirmed bachelor_ , and one who'd long outgrown the torrid dalliances of his youth at that, A.Z. Fell considered himself squarely at peace with solitude. He had his cluttered labyrinth of a shop, where both he and the books he was least willing to part with could vanish among the precarious towering stacks until the jingling and footsteps at his door were through. Some would say it was a counterintuitive way to run a business. He would not necessarily disagree. But it was his trade, and he could bear the occasional sale of one of his treasures to keep it, the less frequent the better. 

Fell kept a hand on the door handle as he pondered what to do with the remainder of his day. He had already made well over what he would need for necessities this month (sparing a solemn moment of mourning for those beautiful antique atlases he'd let go to accomplish it), so really when he thought about it there was no reason to be open at all. Springtime shoppers were always so doggedly ravenous for things to read after all, certainly entertaining romantic fantasies of tree shade and picnics and grass-stained linen. It was really best to just nip all that in the bud before it had a chance to begin. 

And so the owner of A.Z. Fell and Co. flipped his sign to _closed_ at 10am sharp and settled into the plush brown chesterfield at the back with a well-worn poetry anthology in hand, satisfied with a good day's work of not making a single sale. He could spend his time the way he liked it, reading glasses on his nose and a tin of biscuits at his side. 

Sometime close to noon there was a rattling knock at the front window, and Fell instinctively shrank deeper into his seat and out of sight. Customers he had become quite good at warding off, but his vanishing act was notably less effective on his brothers. If they had come to call on him _again_ after yesterday, he swore to whatever higher power would take his complaint—

Well. No use jumping to conclusions. He peeked his head around the large mahogany bookcase that shielded the chesterfield from view of the front. Standing at the wide pane of the window were not his two elder brothers as he'd expected, but rather two younger men he had not seen in a blue moon, dressed up for a day on the town and beaming so brightly that it reflected a little more light into the dim and dusty shop.

Fell whispered conspiratorially to his book of poems, "Ah, that'll be Miles and Robbie." He cast a fond look toward the door. "Best go see what they want, perhaps?" 

With a conclusive nod to his reading he marked it, closed it, and fetched his camel coat to meet the pair who had now spotted him and were waving through the shop window. Two steps out from the threshold onto the sun-warmed cobblestone found the coat promptly relegated to the crook of his elbow. April had wasted no time unfurling to its full splendor this year.

"Mister Fell emerges at last from hibernation!" crowed the flashier-dressed of the young men, channeling an extravagant deep blue peacock with arms flung wide. The other, in a simpler black jacket over crisp white, greeted him with a warm smile and a hand clasped fondly on his arm.

"It seems Miles and I had to take matters into our own hands," said the second man. "We've missed you at the club."

Fell sighed. "I know, Robbie, I've been away too long. When you get to my age you'll understand how the time can get away from you."

"Well then, I hope you won't mind us stealing you away from your work for a few hours?"

Fell's eyes drifted back to the shop. "Oh, I don't know... I really am quite busy today. I hadn't prepared at all to go out."

Miles cleared his throat, "Ahem, you might aim to work on your excuses, old hen. Your door was _locked_." 

"We hoped you might join us for the members-only Spring Luncheon today," said Robbie. "The regulars have been asking after you, in fact."

"They've never known you to miss it," added Miles. "Not to mention," he said, his grin turning devious, "they tell us that every course is fresh today from Porthaven."

Fell sighed in mock resignation. "Ah, you know my weaknesses too well, dear boys. I knew there must have been a reason my palate was craving the fruits of the sea all week." He smiled. "Very well, I shall happily accept your invitation." He surveyed the picture the three of them painted, looking from Robbie in his black-and-white to Miles in his blue-and-silver and finally down at himself in his own cream-and-tartan. "Although I must say we each look to be on our way to entirely different functions."

Miles gave an airy scoff. "Darling, you know as well as we do that the club won't mind that. They delight in mismatch as they always have."

* * *

It was a half-hour's walk from the Revels District that housed Fell's shop to the club on the Riverfront. It was as he remembered it: from the outside a simple unadorned building that the skimming eye would pass over as it drifted from fine restaurant to colorful boutique to lavish hotel along the well-traveled street. Fell sometimes wondered if a bit of magic had gone into making it that way, aware in theory that his sort and the unsanctioned wizards had the rare overlap in their midst, driven by similar wishes to remain discreet.

Inside, however, the club was just as ornate as every other building on the Riverfront, crystal decor taking in the sunlight from the small carefully-placed windows and scattering it about in countless hues and shades. Gentlemen young and old, many of whom Fell recognized, milled about the open floor and the dining tables with cocktail glasses in hand, and some gave him nods of recognition in turn. A small ensemble was tuning and setting up to play, watched by an eager few onlookers who all seemed a couple glasses in already and impatient to dance. Miles and Robbie beckoned him over to a table near the river-facing window, bathed in the light reflected up from the water.

They had been right on time, trays of light citrusy drinks coming around to the table within the minute, followed shortly by the appetizer platter of shellfish. 

“I really do apologize for hermiting myself away,” said Fell, cracking a clam shell over his butter dish. “It must have been, goodness, November when we last got together like this?”

Miles nodded. “Yes, I recall a great deal of fussing on your part about the holiday shopping rush? I’d said to Robbie when you didn’t turn up after New Years that the book clubs of Kingsbury had finally eaten you alive.”

Fell laughed. “Yes, it’s a wonder they haven't already.”

“Nonetheless,” said Robbie, “we were glad to see that you’re well. I trust things are… as they've been, with your brothers?"

"Ah, yes." Fell's smile dimmed. "Well, they’re the same as always. They came by again yesterday."

Robbie clucked sympathetically. "I hope you know our offer still stands. If ever you need any help from our connections—"

Fell waved his hand. "It's nothing I'm not used to by now. Those two have always found some way or another to insult my livelihood, my dining habits, and…" he gestured weakly at their surroundings, "many other things besides. Trying to convince me the shop is a drain on my time and the family's assets, and so on.” 

"Well, I'm still sorry that things haven't improved since last we heard,” said Robbie. “Family is never easy."

"Indeed not."

"I’d once often hoped that those would be the type of difficulties that fade with age, but between your ongoing troubles and the uphill battle my lover faces in his own home, I’ve since learned from my elders to settle in and prepare for a lifetime of tense family gatherings.” Robbie chuckled, but there was little cheer in it. Fell patted his hand. 

"Better a lonely life than a smothered one at least, my dear," said Fell. "The independence of age is one thing to look forward to."

The ensemble in the corner began at last to play, and Miles was on his feet at the first notes, eyes fixed on the dance floor as it filled.

“Exceptional timing! Shall we go and revel in some music and company, take our minds off all this dreary talk?” 

Fell shifted in his seat, cradling his nearly-empty glass. “I’m alright, but thank you Miles. Don’t let us hold you up, do go enjoy yourself.”

“We’ll catch up,” said Robbie, as Miles strode off with a flourish. He turned back to Fell. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, but he lacks grace confronting difficult topics. I think he favors distraction.”

“Yes, I know all too well what that’s like,” Fell said as he flagged down one of the club staff for a refill on his daiquiri, thanking him with a warm appreciative smile. He thoughtfully swirled the replenished drink in its glass. “So, dear Robbie! You never mentioned before now that you were seeing someone!”

Robbie blinked, his own attention returning to Fell from elsewhere.

“Right, of course. That is, yes, I am indeed." He picked absently at the remaining shrimp on his plate. "He's a writer.”

"Oh?" Fell’s eyes brightened. “Anyone I would know? Published?"

“Perhaps, someday. It’s complicated. His work would be... not easily received by the populace at large, even without our various entanglements of public and private life to worry about."

Fell gave a knowing nod. "A familiar story, sadly."

"But it is beautiful, his prose and verse alike. If I know your tastes as well as I think I do, then I think you would enjoy him very much.” 

"I'm sure I would. I look forward to reading his work, and with any reason to hope, carrying it on my shelves someday."

"Thank you," said Robbie. "I really do love him. So perhaps it is foolish of me, perhaps my judgment is colored by feeling, but I can't help but be hopeful myself."

Fell held his glass in both hands, regarding Robbie warmly. "I can tell, you know."

"Tell what?"

"That you're in love. It's quite the welcome respite to see _you_ the one with your head in the clouds for a change. I'm pleased to say the happiness suits you just as well as it suits Miles."

Robbie ducked his head shyly. "I do appreciate that. But what of yourself, Mister Fell?" he asked, leaning forward. "Is there a man in your life? We _had_ hoped perhaps that was why we were seeing less of you."

"Ah," Fell sighed, shaking his head. "No, dear boy, not at the moment. I think…" He paused, but the quiet of it was broken by a small cheer and a burst of laughter from the dance floor. He and Robbie both turned to see Miles, being twirled on his feet in the embrace of a strapping young soldier, tossing a wink to his friends over his shoulder. "Well, it's certainly been a long time since anybody has held me like that," Fell went on, watching. "I'm afraid it may be rather too late for me now."

Robbie tilted his head, lips pursed in dissent. "I'm sure that's not true."

"My dear, you really are too kind to me, but I know when I'm past my prime. I have enough fond memories here of when I was more fashionable, slimmer, easier to talk to. I could never hold a candle to any of those bygone passions today."

It really did feel so long ago now. Fell had loved and been loved here many times over, had known all manner of pleasures along with both joy and heartache immeasurable, but nothing that had lasted. No man had stayed to make the journey with him into middle age. 

"It just seems a shame," said Robbie, "to write yourself off that way. One can't know for certain what's in the cards."

The shellfish were cleared away as they talked, making way on the table for the salmon course, drizzled in lemon and dill.

"It really is quite all right, you know," said Fell a few minutes later, around a forkful of tender fish. "The peace and quiet suits me just fine."

"If that's how you truly feel," said Miles from a few feet off, whirling past their table on the carried momentum of a spin, "then you've picked quite the venue for _peace and quiet!_ " He came to rest back in his seat, sloshing his glass dizzily in his palm as he helped himself to some of the salmon.

"Yes, I'm beginning to see that now," said Fell. He cracked a wry smile. "If nothing else my peace will be disturbed by the noise of you being sick all over the table. Please do pace yourself."

Miles rolled his eyes fondly. "Yes, auntie." He spared a few moments to properly fill his plate, before snapping his fingers. “Oh yes! The gossip on the dance floor reminded me.” He leaned across the table on his elbows, waggling his fork at Fell. "Any chance you've been following the _dramatics_ of all these witches and wizards roving about the country?"

Fell shook his head, his own fork abandoned halfway to his lips. 

"More than just that," added Robbie, "it's that they're gaining seats of power at the sides of lords and governors. Naturally it's causing a great deal of upset with the church and their affiliates near the crown."

Miles nodded. " _Especially_ the Arch family, Robbie hears from his father that they're on the absolute warpath about it."

Fell shifted uncomfortably. The clientele here typically steered well clear of mentioning connections and families by name, certain precautions upheld even within the confidentiality of the club. It was why Fell never referred to his brothers by name, but Miles took those sorts of guidelines as mere suggestion, and Robbie had once himself divulged being the son of a senate lord. It didn't surprise Fell that that put Robbie and by extension Miles within gossip's distance of the Arch family, but the confirmation unsettled him all the same. Arch was not a name that belonged anywhere near this place or his relationships within it.

"I'm afraid I can't say I've kept up much with the affairs of the sorcering types. Or the lording families for that matter. Is there something about them that should concern me?"

"It's cause to be careful," said Robbie, serious. "There's unrest, and that's got the Rogue Wizard Crowley on the move again. He's been bolder as of late. With other wizards there's the protective cushion of their guilds and their accountability to each other, but Crowley is accountable to no one."

Ah. Yes, his brothers had mentioned something similar yesterday, part of their laundry list of reasons Fell was a liability living and working where he did. The term they'd used in lieu of a name had been _degenerate warlock_. Said he'd been skulking around tempting and corrupting souls, luring all sorts of trouble to that garish walking castle of his. At the time Fell hadn't been sure if they were speaking literally or if it was another one of their clumsy extended metaphors for iniquity in general. For all he'd heard various floating rumors about the castle that wandered over the moors of Ingary and sometimes made itself an uninvited part of the skyline, Fell had never seen it himself, and hadn't been entirely convinced it existed. 

If the low distant rumbling and the hushed commotion that had fallen over the club was any indication however, he was about to.

"Speak of the devil, come and see here!" exclaimed Miles, who had leapt to his feet and was throwing open the door to a balcony that looked out over the river. A few gentlemen followed him out, necks craned in curiosity. On the other side of the river, in the low hills beyond the outskirts of the city, Fell could see it: a great shambling blocky stone thing with an excess of chimneys, some of which by Fell's sight looked to actually be clusters of twisting metal pipes like some mangled musical instrument. 

An affront to the eyes was what it was. _And_ the ears, in fact. Those pipe-like chimneys actually were playing music, billowing it out right alongside the thick clouds of smoke, though it was nothing like any music Fell had ever heard. This was _loud_ , with some sort of plucked strings that held a shrill and entirely alien sound, fast erratic drumbeats, and even faster more erratic singing. There were a few parts that dipped into something Fell could loosely recognize as operatic before slipping back into the realm of the incomprehensible.

"Whoever heard of a castle that goes around spewing bebop?" 

"Oh I don't know," said Miles, fanning the collar of his jacket in the sun, "I think it's _avant-garde_."

"Already entertaining fantasies of being swept away, Miles?" teased Robbie, nudging his way through to join the others outside.

"It's my weakness for handsome troublemakers!" Miles grinned. "Who am I to resist a wicked wizard shrouded in mystery?"

This earned a ribbing remark from one of the other gentlemen nearby, and a few others chimed in with their own assessments of each other's tastes in men, turning the exchange into a many-voiced clamor, but Fell's attention remained fixed on the castle. He watched it until it crested the furthest of the hills and vanished into the countryside, taking its strange and noisy song with it.

The rest of lunch went by at a pace fit to carry into the late afternoon. The dancing continued, though to Fell's disappointment it did not include the Gavotte, the lone dance he had perfected in his younger days and could still perform with reliable confidence. The musicians explained that it had gone out of style a few years back, and that even if they did play it for him he would be hard-pressed to find enough others to join in on the demanding choreography.

It was later, after much of the club had retired to the parlor that now smelled strongly of smoke and coffee, that Fell grabbed one last pastry and bid his friends goodbye. He was due back at his shop and had a few errands to run while he was out.

* * *

One of Fell's last stops along the way back was at the stationery shop. The daylight was fading, long shadows accompanying most people home as the streets emptied. He was surprised by the queue that had built up at the front of the shop at this hour, but by the time he neared the till, cardstock in hand, it was easy to see the source of the backup.

A slim auburn-haired man in a bold dark ensemble was leaning quite far over the counter, speaking in a hushed tone to the clerk. The item of contention on the counter seemed to be a well of blood-red ink, rippling in its bottle as it was presented, inspected, and passed back and forth. Fell couldn't catch the words being spoken, but he saw the sidelong curl of the man's smile when the clerk relented to whatever barter or haggle scheme was taking place, collecting the ink bottle and cautiously handing him a small stack of coins in return. 

Whatever victory this man had attained however was cut short as the shopkeeper bustled his way out of the back, spotting them mid-transaction. More hushed words were exchanged, along with quite a lot of sharp gestures and pointing, the end result being the return of the ink to the man's pocket and the coin to the till, and the clerk retreating with trembling shoulders to the shopkeeper’s office. 

The man turned, revealing a sour expression on an otherwise handsome face in dark round glasses, and exited the shop with a slinking sort of defiant strut, long sleeves billowing past Fell as he went. He passed by so closely that Fell could hear the light jangle of his earring and a low, drawling murmur directed at no one in particular:

" _That_ went down like a lead balloon."

Then he was out the door and out of sight. Fell wrinkled his brow disapprovingly. Some flash and arrogant young snake oil salesman, he suspected, exploiting the good will of the poor young lady at the counter to peddle useless merchandise at an inflated cost. It was something one saw far too much of these days. 

Soon after, he was called to the till to ring up his own purchase and the incident was forgotten.

* * *

Just after dark and with a few more shopping parcels in hand, Fell returned to his shop in the Revels District with the steps of his evening routine planned out to the letter, down to the stirs of cream in his cocoa. At no point did this routine involve customers or guests of any sort, of that he was most assured. If he'd had the steps of it all written down, that point would have been underlined. Twice.

And yet he had just gotten the shopping put away and the milk heated when there was a click and a jingle at the front door, which he had been _certain_ he'd locked.

"Excuse me," he said sharply, rounding the corner from his back room to find two strange men lurking near the till. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed."

They both looked up, with expressions that were much too pleased to suit being told off and ousted from a testy bookseller's place of business. The pale-haired one with eerily dark eyes took an envelope from the dark-haired one with eerily pale eyes and presented it to Fell.

"Duke Hastur and Duke Ligur, here with correspondence for the owner of A.Z. Fell and Co." 

Fell raised an eyebrow. The two of them were wearing robes covered in scorch marks, multicolored stains, and remnants of various fine and coarse powders. He had to wonder, Dukes of what, exactly? And what sort of nobility delivered letters in person rather than send somebody on their behalf? He folded his arms behind his back.

"If you wish to deliver something to me, I kindly ask that you do so during business hours. We're closed."

The man who'd spoken — Hastur? — now looked notably less pleased, eyes rolling in frustration, revealing almost no white beyond the large black irises. 

"Wouldn't you rather we _not_ have to come back?"

"I would _rather_ you vacate immediately. This is not only my property but my private home, and it is after hours. So, noblemen or not, whatever business you have under whatever pretenses, you are both trespassing."

Ligur gave Hastur a pointed glare, probably to stop the unpleasant grinding of the latter's teeth, but it looked to inspire another thought in those strange dark eyes.

Hastur's grin returned. "Alright then. Here, you can open this on your own time. We just have to mark it as delivered, then we can be out of your hair." 

He tossed the envelope, and without thinking, Fell stumbled forward and reached out to catch it.

The only thing he had time to register as it landed in his palms was that it was unusually heavy for a letter, before the wax seal that held it closed split in two with a flash of light, and the envelope ignited in his hands.


	2. In Which Antiquarian and Unusual Books Learn Many Secrets

What spilled forth from the envelope was not fire. Fell would have known if it was. This was — he didn't know _what_ this was, except that it was bright, it was lukewarm and clammy, and it was causing an adverse reaction in his stomach with all the seafood he'd eaten earlier in the day. It was also making his bookcases quake violently, book spines cracking as they tumbled to the floor, falling open to rapidly-flipping pages as though caught in a strong wind. Some unfortunate older volumes had their bindings give way entirely, sending loose pages cascading in spirals through the shop.

It was over in moments, the bright light fading and papers fluttering to rest on the rug. When Fell had the presence of mind to look down, feeling a sickly lurch as his head moved, the envelope and whatever it had once contained were nothing but furled and blackened scraps. He blinked, hoping to clear away the bright spots still flashing behind his eyelids. The scraps held fragments of words, but he was in no fit state to read them, nor were they in any state to be read. He briefly considered that perhaps the envelope _had_ caught fire and burned and he hadn't realized it, but no, his hands and clothes were undamaged. No other explanation than magic for that.

He could hear Hastur and Ligur snickering, and his vision refocused to find them picking their way through the downed books and the shelves that their spell had knocked crooked. The dust that had been kicked free had ended up stuck mostly to them.

See now, this was _exactly_ what he had always said would happen if you went tangling with wizards. And Fell hadn't even tangled on purpose, he'd just caught some kind of cursed envelope by sheer reflex, and now his shop was in disarray and he himself was afflicted with who-knows-what. And the miscreants who'd done it were still here, standing around all smug and pleased with themselves about what they'd done, that was the insult to injury.

“The brilliant thing about that spell is that it's a twofer," said Hastur, who picked up a book at random, roughly dangling it open by the front cover. He gave a quick skim of the contents and snorted, holding it over so Ligur could see. "Now _that's_ embarrassing, eh?"

"There's the books themselves, then there's what'll happen when you try to deny what's in 'em,” said Ligur, swatting away the book while Hastur chortled behind him. 

There were many things Fell wanted to say to this, none of them cordial, but he found himself unable to produce the words for any of them as both wizards dusted themselves off and made for the door. Halfway over the threshold, Ligur turned back.

"Bit under-the-table, this, so don't tell our client, but if you could somehow get us in touch with Wizard Crowley, we may be willing to revisit the terms of this spell. He hasn't been taking our messages."

Before Fell could begin to explain that he didn't know Crowley, or demand the name of whatever client had put Hastur and Ligur up to this, they were gone.

The first thing that hit him in the quiet of the empty bookshop was the clawing nausea of some strange and sourceless guilt in his stomach, the sort that made one want to lock oneself in a confessional booth and speak until wrung out, every secret laid bare. He gulped, swallowing down the impulse, but it still thumped against his throat and pounded in his head with its pledge to one day overturn each and every discretion that made him the guarded private man he was. 

He sank into a chair, staring at the floor and hoping it would pass. 

His downcast eyes fell on the book that Hastur had snooped at. It was part of his prophecy collection, _Mother Shipton_. Or, it had been. He recognized the typeface and filigree of the cover, but its title now read _The Truth About Mister A.Z. Fell: Volume CCXVII_. 

With shaking hands he picked it up, letting it fall open to the inner cover. He found the text inside overwritten as well, its new contents displayed in prominent bold type. 

> **This volume details the deceit committed by A.Z. Fell in obscuring his true identity from the general public. In summary and as will be fully expounded upon within, A.Z. Fell is an alias for Aziraphale Arch, the estranged youngest son of the Arch family of clergy and lawmakers. In choosing the vocation of a book peddler under his mother’s maiden name, he has broken from the traditions established by his father Lord Merton Arch and carried on by his elder brothers Gabriel and Sandalphon and the extended Arch family.**

“Good lord, this goes on?” 

Indeed, there was even a table of contents.

It was all he could do to keep his head on straight as he sat with the book and simply processed. He leafed through a few of the others that sat near his feet, and it was enough to confirm his suspicions. Every book in the shop, every last one of his cherished one-of-a-kind manuscripts and lovingly signed and dedicated first editions, was now a scathing volume of the same extensive series, all about him. All things he had chosen at some point in his life for one reason or another to not divulge, now inscribed in ink for anyone to see.

It was strange, the sediment that this history kicked up. He didn’t mind the name Aziraphale, per se. It was unique, the name of one of the lesser-known angels in a verse that was omitted from most scriptures and could be found in very few places other than his own collection. And yet his mother had always made this unusual name sound so natural and musical, saying it with such easy uncomplicated affection. He had treasured it then, and under different circumstances he was sure he still would. The trouble was that these angelic names, particularly the unique ones, were the unmistakable signature of the Arch family, and he was not in a position to go around announcing what family he belonged to, hadn’t been for a long time. No, he kept his head down, went by an unassuming name, and for nearly three decades that had been enough.

The second part of the spell didn’t occur to him until he made the mistake of bringing that name to rest on his tongue as he muttered and mused out loud to himself, and all at once that dreadful churning in his stomach reappeared, making him double over in his chair. He felt the distinct impression of something seizing him by the tongue, ready to move it or seal it without his input. 

“Right, right, understood,” he croaked to the empty shop, clutching his knees. “To clarify the terms of this curse..." The hold on him went slack enough that he was able to sit up. "I am not to contradict anything contained in these books of mine you’ve altered, or else be magically compelled to truth. Do I understand correctly?”

The sensation eased back, until it was just a looming twinge of something that threatened to return at a moment's notice. 

“Hm. Well, I suppose it’s good to know this is a curse I can talk to if I am ever unsure of the _rules_ ,” he said bitterly, scowling in no particular direction. “Very well. I’ll play along. Aziraphale Arch it is for now. I can do it for my brothers, I can do it for you too. Anything else for me?” He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, rolling up his sleeves. He had a vague sense of what he needed to do, and he’d best get started now if he wanted to be out of here by dawn. 

The transformed stock of his shop numbered in the thousands. Aziraphale couldn’t find any sort of organizational order to their numbering, as they were neither chronological nor ranked by the severity of the secret contained within, so he resigned himself to combing through them at random.

It was some consolation that the vast majority of them were exceedingly dull. By all accounts he’d only lived a particularly scandalous life by Arch standards, and so most of what now filled his shelves were long-winded tomes detailing childhood embarrassments or times that he had inadvertently cut corners with his finances. As midnight and each successive early morning hour crawled by, Aziraphale fought back sleep by way of vindictive fantasies of Hastur and Ligur having had to research and record this tedious excess of pointless information by hand. He supposed this probably wasn’t terribly realistic — what was the point of magic if not to offload that sort of work? At least the thought of them bored out of their minds with cramped wrists went some distance toward cheering him up. 

He also gathered up the tattered blackened remnants of the spell, stuffing whatever scraps he could find into a fresh envelope that he folded and secured in the pocket of his waistcoat. 

With some time to spare before sunrise, Aziraphale had what he needed together. He hoped so, at least. The lowest-grade secrets that made up the majority of his stock remained in place, tucked back away on the righted bookcases. Petty wrongdoings and anything his friends would have blushed at, he stacked up and locked in his back room. Just over a half dozen volumes had turned out to be of real concern to him: the account of his identity and family; sensitive details about his club's attendees and some of his old flames from back in the day; what became of the historical heirloom sword he’d inherited, along with a few others. Those were coming with him, packed into a leather bag which in turn Aziraphale packed into his trunk along with what precious few other possessions could travel. 

Wrapping his coat protectively around himself, a bleary-eyed Aziraphale dragged his trunk out the back door of the darkened and shuttered bookshop that bore a name he could no longer use, locking all but his most dangerous secrets inside. He’d be leaving it dark and empty for some time, he imagined. Under the chilled grey cover of dawn, he followed familiar cobblestone streets to the Riverfront, and then past it to the bridge that would take him out of Kingsbury to the hills beyond.


	3. In Which Aziraphale Takes The Path Of Greatest Resistance

It was all well and good that nobody had stopped Aziraphale on the way out of town to ask him where he was going, because he could say with resolute truth, as was apparently the new policy around here, that he did not know. Leaving the city was the important step, everything after that was down to improvisation. He could manage that. Aziraphale was a man of routine, but it was always such fickle routine guided mainly by whim, so he was sure he could come to cultivate new habits wherever he found himself. Build a new book collection, find new favorite eateries. 

He supposed it would do to just meander a ways until he found a suitably small and anonymous village somewhere, one where the people didn't mind a man with soft hands and ideally had never heard the Arch family name before. He recalled Hastur and Ligur's parting offer to lift his curse if he pointed them to Crowley, but frankly at this point he had no interest in seeing another dangerous wizard for the rest of his days, let alone earning one's ire by throwing him to the wolves. No, he'd make the most of this and turn over a new leaf. He'd prepared for the possibility of never being able to return to Kingsbury. His friends would worry for him perhaps, for a time, but they were young and deserved to enjoy that part of their lives among their peers. So they ought to forget about him soon enough, no need for them to be weighed down fretting after an old man any longer. 

The thing they don't often tell you about Ingary is that for such a small country, it's a country spread thin, with mostly empty space between the few crowded burgs and sparse farmstead cottages dotting the landscape. Much of it comprised of all the same damp grass and clover and other indistinct greenery, and somehow also mostly uphill. It made for slow going and very few markers of progress. Aziraphale could still see the spires and colorful roofs of Kingsbury behind him, still looking nearly as close as they had when he crossed the bridge hours ago. If he'd been less concerned about leaving a trail, he would have much rather boarded a train and ridden it out to a station in the countryside; perhaps somewhere in the Folding Valley would have suited. But as it was, he couldn't have ticket records and fellow passengers tying him back to where he came from.

So trudging along on foot and dragging his trunk along with him it was, with a stop along the way to sit at the top of a hill and nibble unenthusiastically on the sandwich he'd brought with him, slightly squashed from travel. At least the view was pleasant. 

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d ever walked this much before in his life. He’d spent his recent years dreading the day he would have cause to start complaining about his joints, and for all his efforts to delay it by living in the utmost comfort and leisure, that day was now here. He took some measure of pride in having _earned_ the right to complain, as at least by now Kingsbury was obscured by the uplands behind him and mostly out of sight, but it didn’t alleviate his growing need to hunker down and rest somewhere with cushioned seats and a hot meal. Going the entire night without sleep was taking a toll of its own, the surge of anxious energy having long worn off, giving way to exhaustion.

With the approach of evening and the chill that accompanied the dimming spring sunlight, the fact that Aziraphale had walked all day without seeing a village or even a single dwelling out here beyond the city was growing from an annoyance to a real concern. 

“I don’t suppose this is one of those clever spells that also works in reverse?" he wondered out loud. It was becoming a habit. "The kind where if I were to claim that just over this next rise, there's a nice little cottage with a kind shepherd who’ll share his dinner and let me stay the night, it would manifest as truth?” The stitch that had been eating at Aziraphale’s side for the last few hours ached harder in reply. He shook his head. “No, no, you’re right, I suppose not. Probably sensible that it wasn’t engineered that way. Wouldn't be much of a curse at that point, would it?” 

The grass under his feet came to be beaded with dew as the sky darkened and the air cooled, which made Aziraphale’s path slippery on top of everything else. He found himself puffing and panting even harder than before, grasping with white knuckles onto his trunk to prevent it dragging him backward down the hills. He was probably making a terrible racket, and his own thoughts were a cacophony of curses, such that it took him a fair bit of time to realize that he was only the source of _some_ of that noise. 

The rest was coming from a bit further up and out of sight. It was the noise of the earth shaking and rumbling with what could only be immense footfalls, accompanying the rhythm of unusual music. 

It wasn't the same song from the day before, but it was clearly cut from the same cloth, equally loud and jarring and composed of instruments Aziraphale could not name. He found its source moments later, spotting the infamous roaming castle of Wizard Crowley as it crested one of the nearby hills and barreled its way down the slope at a speed most unbefitting of something so large and heavy. It would have been terrifying if it were approaching him head-on rather than moving diagonally away as it was. 

“That’s two sightings in two days now,” murmured Aziraphale. He sniffed. “I think I’ve seen and heard more of this castle than I care to.” Even as he said it, he found himself treading tentatively closer in curiosity, the weight of his belongings proving an entirely ineffective ballast for keeping him rooted where he stood. 

Once it reached flatter ground at the bottom, the castle abruptly halted, heaving and groaning as if it needed to stop for breath, before it picked up walking again, slower this time. In spite of himself, a similarly breathless Aziraphale found that he sympathized with it. Its reduced pace also finally allowed him to catch up and get a better look.

The castle was even odder to behold up close. It was solid grey stone, and the severe straight lines and sharp angles of it made it look more like a fortress or a factory than a palace, to say nothing of the billowing smokestack-like turrets and twisting pipes. From a distance it had looked to be ambling along on stout blocky legs, but from here Aziraphale could see that they were less solid limbs and more loosely clustered stacks of free-floating stone bricks, all shifting together under the weight of the castle, clattering and crunching and scraping against one another with each step, making its sturdy square foundation pitch dangerously back and forth. It had to be terribly unsettling to anybody inside.

It was also the first of any sort of dwelling that Aziraphale had seen since leaving Kingsbury, and judging by the empty hills around him it would be the only one for some time yet. If he let this pass him by, who was to say when or even if he would find anything else for shelter for the night? He looked longingly up at the chimneys and the smoke that trailed from them, imagining a cozy fire crackling on the hearth inside.

How one would go about getting into the place however was its biggest mystery. The lurch of its gait put it anywhere from four feet off the ground to a dozen, and as Aziraphale saw it there was no conceivable way _up_ the thing. Until he noticed that every so often, each leg of those ever-moving bricks would corkscrew into what could loosely be called a staircase shape, though just barely, and not a remotely stable one at that. 

"Oh, _absolutely_ not.” 

Aziraphale glared at the castle. He'd just gotten to convincing himself to go in, and here it was now giving him every good reason to walk away and forget he'd ever seen it. He really thought he might. But that did nothing for him about the cold and the danger of being alone out on the open moorlands after dark. Not to mention, now that going in was his own idea, the unreasonably difficult route of entry seemed very much to be denying him out of spite. And that could not stand, even if Aziraphale knew he’d be giving it the satisfaction of seeing him chase desperately after it like some sorry suitor. 

He knew he was dithering, and losing valuable time as he did so. A chill wind from the north sought to help him along, cutting through his grousing and chattering his teeth. The chimney smoke caught on the wind as well, rushing past Aziraphale with the warm comforting scent of burning wood. It was enough to make his eyes water.

"You're tremendously lucky I have nothing else to lose right now." 

His mind made up, Aziraphale gave a heavy sigh as he broke into a jog, trunk bumping along behind him. The castle was gradually picking up speed again and it would be beyond his reach if he did not catch up to it soon. 

“I do hope you realize this is unacceptable,” he said between heavy breaths, hopping and scrambling his way onto the lower steps of one brick leg. “This is the kind of reckless construction that can and will get somebody killed. Inconveniently infirmed at _least_.” The moving castle was unmoved by his complaint. Aziraphale huffed and continued climbing, hugging the stone to avoid being jostled off. 

Each uneven rumbling stride of the castle made that an increasingly difficult task. Aziraphale hadn't fully appreciated how much work it would be to barge into a stranger's home until the very moment he attempted it. He had a newfound grudging respect for the customers that had tried all sorts of ludicrous ways to get into his shop outside of business hours over the years. 

He reached the castle’s outer wall, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase along the smooth surface. He realized belatedly that in the dark he had not seen an obvious door inset anywhere, and grumbled as he felt his way blindly around the perimeter, air whipping around him. 

One step put his foot on the edge of a brick that was moving away from the castle wall, and Aziraphale stumbled with a yelp as he found his foot pulled out from under him, bracing his free hand on the wall for support. Before he could right himself, the wall beneath his hand fell forward with an inward spin, carrying the momentum of his full weight with it, sending him tumbling forward onto a hard stone floor in a sore heap. He groaned, counting his blessings to be safely back on solid ground at least. 

He realized with some alarm as he rolled over onto his knees that his hands were empty and his trunk unaccounted for, until he looked backward and saw it, wedged in the gap of the same peculiar stone slab of a revolving door that he had fallen through. He pulled it free, and the heavy door turned to once again lie flush and seamless within the wall as Aziraphale stood to gain his bearings. This was the castle of Wizard Crowley. He had made it, for whatever that was worth. 

* * *

He was pleasantly surprised to find it still and mostly quiet inside. Whatever magic went into the upkeep of this place kept out all of the bumping and lurching from outside. He could still hear the music, but only muffled fragments of it drifting down from somewhere higher in the castle, nothing like the amplified blaring from before. 

The front entryway he had fallen into opened up to a large and mostly empty room, all made of granite-grey stone like the outside. A staircase in the far wall led up to the darkened upper level. Near the broad window at the front sat a long sleek table that Aziraphale would have taken for Crowley's workbench, had it looked to have seen even a second of work since it was built. The wizardly study chambers of Aziraphale’s imagination were always cluttered with notes and artifacts and various spell powders and tinctures, but this table was empty and pristinely polished. It sported a single chair, which Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at suspiciously.

"For Heaven's sake, is that a throne?" It was. Tall and ornate in red and gold, the sole color in the room. It clashed terribly with its stark and barren surroundings. "The sense of taste in here is appalling."

There was little else of note to see, aside from a few assorted statues, and one other stray chair that looked as though it were deliberately avoiding the table, this one a much smaller and plainer affair, just cracked black leather stretched taut over a boxy frame.

The true centerpiece of the room was its unusual fireplace, a large circular pit ringed by a soot-streaked hearth and a bannister of iron bars. Aziraphale puzzled to guess exactly how deep this pit went, piled full as it was with mountains of ash that spilled out between the bars and onto the floor, threatening to smother the paltry fire sputtering precariously on the grate. He clicked his tongue, and tilted his head up to inspect the flue, expecting a disaster and potential hazard of a similar sort in there. Pitch dark, though he couldn’t say with certainty whether that was from shadow or soot. The granite pallor of the castle had deep cold shadows clinging to every corner of the room like cobwebs, hungrily pulling away what little warmth and light the fading dregs of a fire could manage.

Altogether this castle was certainly a world away from the plush armchairs and the earthy warmth of mahogany that Aziraphale had left behind. He found himself, not for the first time today, pining for the comforts of his abandoned shop. But this was nothing he couldn't work with for the night, so long as he made a speedy exit in the morning. Wicked as he was said to be, this Crowley probably deserved to be imposed upon. But that was not a confrontation Aziraphale was particularly interested in having, so he put the possibility of it out of his mind and turned his attention toward getting some warmth into this inhospitable room. 

Humming to settle himself, Aziraphale unearthed a few of the stray logs cluttered about the hearth, arranging them cautiously atop the grate, taking care not to knock over the ashes. After a few doubtful moments they caught, dim red embers pepping up to a bright healthy golden flame. Satisfied, Aziraphale pulled the small black chair up close to the hearth and sank into it best he could for what little give it had, relieved to just be off his feet.

There, see? It was already crackling so much more nicely. The steady pop and hiss that accompanied the dancing waver of the flames settled Aziraphale’s jittering nerves, driving back the frozen stiffness of his joints, and he found himself wriggling deeper into the cramped leather seat, head drooping on the edge of sleep. 

* * *

And there on the edge he remained for a good ten minutes at least.

That hissing was _not_ quieting down the way Aziraphale hoped it would, and it had stepped well past soothing into irritating now that it was loud enough to keep him from the rest he had rightfully earned. He'd had quite enough of being awake, thank you. 

_"_ The logs must be damp," he muttered, creaking his way out of the chair and to his feet, hunting about for the fire poker with bleary half-open eyes. As he shuffled his way around, the hissing turned sharp and clear before him, shifting into a voice. 

"If you're looking for the jabbing and prodding tools, I've confiscated them."

Aziraphale startled, his exhaustion-bowed head snapping immediately upright. "I beg your pardon?" he squeaked. 

His eyes were wide open now to see what had spoken. The voice had come from a large spade-shaped head that was burrowing its way out of the deep banks of ash in the fireplace, a long serpentine body following close behind. It was as thick as a sturdy tree bough, with dusty black scales and a red underbelly that glowed like hot coals. The serpent yawned, and Aziraphale could see the yellow-orange interior of its mouth aglow as well, like a creature burning from the inside out. 

Cracking its wide jaw back into place, it answered, "I said I confiscated them. I'm encouraging those with notes on how I run my fire to _use their words_ for a change." The serpent's voice left its mouth as a crackling hiss of steam, the sound of flames licking at dampened wood, pulling moisture free with sharp snaps and pops on each consonant.

Clear of the ashes, it coiled itself around the iron bannister and reared its head to look Aziraphale square in the face. Its narrow-slitted amber eyes held flickering firelight within them, as though reflecting it back from an invisible source. 

"Now what might be your business here?" it asked, swaying in place and regarding Aziraphale with an inquisitive forked tongue the color of molten metal. Close enough for Aziraphale to feel the heat emanating off it, but not close enough to burn. "Crowley did not send for anyone."

Aziraphale pursed his lips warily as he returned to his seat, holding the serpent's unblinking gaze.

“Just getting in from the cold. I really don’t mean to impose for any longer than a night.” He paused to still his fidgeting hands. “And I know full well I wasn’t sent for," he said, more steadily. "As for that, I presume Crowley doesn’t need to know I’m here any more than you need tormenting with the fire poker.”

The creature puffed with amusement. A bit of smoke escaped its nostrils and the pits above its mouth. 

"Fair enough. Doesn't matter much to me either way. If Crowley wants to check for intruders to throw out he'll do all that himself, I'm not his guard.” 

“Well, you’re clearly something to him, living in his home and speaking on his behalf. Care to tell me what that is?”

“I am the fire demon Seraphinus,” said the serpent, winding his way down and off of the bars surrounding the fireplace, retreating inward to its central grate. He coiled around one log that had not fully caught, and the wood ignited with a roar at the touch of his red-hot belly. "And as long as I'm bound here to Crowley's hearth with these bars as my cage, I serve to power and warm his castle.” He squeezed the blazing log in his coils until it cracked, burning up and crumbling into charcoal. “Heat the water, light the lamps, and did I mention keeping this entire heap of bricks up and moving, every hour of every day? It’s exhausting!" 

His voice grew louder as he went on, and the flames blazed ever brighter and hotter until Aziraphale had to scoot his chair back, squinting against the intense bright heat on his face. He got the sense that this piteous creature hadn’t had anyone to lend an ear to his hardships in quite a long time, if ever. 

Nonetheless, Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap, unperturbed. "Well, I'm sure a clever demon like yourself can find your way out of an open pit like this, so I'm less inclined to call you bound or caged as much as simply not trying."

"Bound by _contract_ ," said Seraphinus. Aziraphale swore he saw the serpent roll his eyes at him. “Please, it's obvious you're less than thrilled with this place yourself. And yet here you are, because it’d be much worse to be out in the open at night without a roof over your head. So I'm sure you can understand. Let's just say you and I have a lot in common, human."

"Undoubtedly."

“I thought so. Now, I’ve told you my name. It's only fair for you to tell me yours." 

Seraphinus remained in constant motion while speaking, slithering his way around the perimeter of the fire pit, nudging and arranging the logs on the center grate, pushing away what little ash could be cleared. Even watching him work, Aziraphale had the uneasy feeling of being circled, sized up.

"Aziraphale," he answered, with some hesitation. There was a tug on his tongue. “Aziraphale Arch, rather.”

Seraphinus gave a dry and crackling chuckle. "I'm sorry to hear that. Not that mine's any better, but the names of demons are terminally overwrought by design. What's your excuse?"

If anyone had asked Aziraphale yesterday how he expected to spend the following evening, his answer certainly would not have been squatting in Wizard Crowley's moving castle, getting lip from the demon in his fireplace. His heart went out to the Aziraphale of yesterday, so blissfully unaware of what he would soon be dealing with.

"Devout family," he said tightly.

“Oh yes, and there’s the missing piece of the puzzle. I see now why this curse you’re under has you so wound up.”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed in surprise. “What do you know of my curse?”

"Just the basics. Demons have a certain sense for this type of magic." Seraphinus flickered his tongue, scrutinizing Aziraphale with it. "The design of it isn't especially sophisticated. I can tell a whole lot of inefficient busywork went into cobbling this together, but it's dense and thorough, and it's lodged deep. Could take weeks to unravel, but I could do it. If you agree to my help."

"For a price, I'm sure," said Aziraphale warily, not taking his eyes off the demon.

"Naturally," said Seraphinus. His wide serpent mouth pulled into an approximation of a grin. Aziraphale was beginning to notice that his face was more expressive than that of a real snake, but only just. Only enough to be vaguely off-putting in its uncanniness. "You already understand. I love when I don't have to spell it out! Yes, I think a contract for a contract, a spell for a spell, that's well within the bounds of a decent bargain. Don't you think?"

"A deal with a demon, is what you’re suggesting.”

"I promise it's not as scary as you think it is."

“And your smile, good fellow, is not nearly as charming as you think it is, put those teeth away please. Now, I gather you want to be free of your contract with Crowley," Aziraphale ventured. Seraphinus tipped his head forward in confirmation. "Well, I know nothing about magic to start with. So I don't see how I can be of much help."

"Oh no, there's really nothing to it. If you know how to nullify any ordinary contract, then you can break a binding spell. The only hitch is that you need to know the terms of the contract, and I'm not able to tell you that outright. The magic that sees to that should be familiar to you by now."

"Now hold on just a moment—"

"I can give hints at most," Seraphinus continued, ignoring him. "You could trick the full details out of Crowley if you're feeling bold, but that's hardly the only way. Get creative. You'll have plenty of time to work all that out for yourself while I work on your curse. I can keep a read on it as long as you're nearby."

"And I'm to just stay here in the meantime?"

"As long as it takes," said Seraphinus. "But only if you're interested. So. Do we have a deal?"

The demon drove a hard bargain. Aziraphale truly did want his life back, no matter what he'd tried to tell himself. His joints ached for a warm bath and a soft chair. His heart ached for his irreplaceable books and the shop he called home, and for the scant few people he had invited at least partway into his life, who he had to concede would worry about him no matter where he disappeared to. He longed for the safety of the name that kept him at a respectable distance from his family, the reassuring embrace of kept secrets. For the mere price of tampering with a magic contract and turning a captured demon loose, he could have it all back. It didn't seem entirely right, but few things in his life ever had. So much time spent upholding virtue to the letter and somehow always doing the wrong thing anyway. Perhaps this would be different.

"Alright," he said. "It's a deal."

“Very well!” crackled Seraphinus. The flames around him sparked excitedly. In spite of Aziraphale’s own misgivings and well-warranted caution, there was an earnestness to this demon that he respected. 

“Since I’m sure to meet him in the morning, what can you tell me about Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, slowly. He was nodding off, and hoped to hear the answer before he went for good. 

“He’s as heartless as they come,” said Seraphinus, curling up beneath the grate, burnt logs and ash forming a nest around him. “Consider that your first hint.”

Aziraphale considered it, but not for very long. He would worry more about what that meant for him later. For now, he allowed sleep to take him from the uncomfortable chair at last, lulled by the flicker of firelight and the reprieve it gave him from thoughts of the unusual reckoning he would face come morning. 


	4. In Which Both Cocoa And A Second Deal Are Made

Aziraphale woke abruptly to the sound of knocking, followed by a young voice grumbling unseen from somewhere above him. 

As he blinked awake, he looked dazedly about to see himself surrounded by the same bleak grey stone of Crowley’s castle, only now illuminated by daylight pouring through the large front window, glaring harsh white light off the reflective surface of the table. Aziraphale stared gloomily up at the ceiling. He’d entertained a vague hope of having dreamt up all this nonsense about wizards and curses and demons, perhaps having dozed off in his favorite armchair after a bit too much fantastical reading before bed. It had been a long shot, he’d never been much of a vivid dreamer at all really, but he couldn’t fault himself for the pang of disappointment in his chest at waking up to all the same troubles he’d had the night before. 

As his vision cleared and focused on the hearth, he could hear the rustle of coals and see the ember glow of Seraphinus stirring from his nestled spot beneath the logs, disturbed by the persistent knocking at the front door.

"It's the Tadfield door," the demon announced in the direction of the staircase, and was answered by more grumbling, followed by the light, shuffling footsteps of a boy descending the steps to the room.

Aziraphale cautiously feigned sleep, listening and occasionally glancing out of the corner of one eye as the boy — no older than ten — made his heavy-lidded rounds of the central room and front hall: gathering up his cloak and fastening it around his neck, pulling on his boots, feeding a couple more logs onto the fire and whisking right past Aziraphale as he did. The rote, perfunctory way he went about his routine may as well have been sleepwalking for all the attention Aziraphale was paid. He seemed to have escaped the boy's notice entirely.

Tadfield though, Aziraphale hazily recognized, that was one of the little villages near the old university, wasn't it? Easily a full day's worth of travel from Kingsbury by train. He thought it quite impressive of the castle to make that kind of journey overnight. Though perhaps his praise was better reserved for whoever had strode right up and braved the turbulent climb up those precarious stair-legs to knock on the front door of the notorious Wizard Crowley. He wondered what kind of person would come calling here.

“Stand by,” the boy called in the direction of the entry hall after a few increasingly insistent knocks, standing up and smoothing out his cloak. He gave his dark shoulder-length hair a cursory comb-through with his fingers on his way to the door. "For your safety, please step back from the entryway," he rattled off in a flat voice, planting both hands on the featureless granite slab, and pushed it into a spin.

This time as it turned, it did not stop after a single revolution as it had when it'd opened up and sent Aziraphale tumbling headlong into the castle the night before. He watched it go round one, two, three times, each pass of the open door letting in a different sort of draft from outside with blurry scenery to match: one damp and chilly, one pungent and humid, one clear and warm and smelling of salt brine. Through the window and those brief flashes of open doorway, the whirl of shifting light and color sent shadows sweeping across the castle floor and skittering jaggedly along the walls. When at last the door's revolutions scraped to a stop, it stood ajar, opened up to a clear blue sky, a bucolic village thoroughfare, and a cross young woman.

"Miss Device," said the boy, tightly gripping the edge of the slab. If a revolving door could in fact be slammed, he looked intent and ready to prove it. 

"Warlock," said the woman in kind, matching the boy’s icy tone. And, Aziraphale noted, his accent. Both from across the western sea, the same accent Aziraphale's brother Gabriel had acquired from his schooling abroad. "Not that we haven't been through this already ad nauseum, but I'm obligated to ask again: is Crowley available for an appointment today?"

The boy cleared his throat. "Are you sure you have the right address? This is the residence of Wizard Jenkins, miss."

She gave a tight smile. "Right. How could I forget. You know, I still hope you realize that as a witch, I don't — actually, you know what? Never mind. It's fine. Is _Jenkins_ in right now?"

"Master Jenkins is away on business."

"Of course. Of course he is.” She removed her glasses, closing her eyes and rubbing at her temples. “Dare I ask if this business is even the _least_ bit relevant to what I've asked him to prioritize? Namely getting my family's book back in my hands? In the condition it was in _before_ the incident?"

"The master’s whereabouts and activities are private information that I cannot divulge to you, miss."

Device returned her glasses to her face with a long sigh. "All right, kid. I want to think you agree with me by now that this isn't productive or fun? Neither of us want to keep going through this same song and dance, so," she said, crossing her arms behind her back and tilting sideways to look through the door, "maybe I ought to send this up the chain and talk to _that_ gentleman instead?"

The boy turned to look where Device was looking, noticing Aziraphale at last, and at the resulting expression on the boy’s face, Aziraphale _immediately_ rethought his courage about facing Crowley. He was woefully unprepared to encounter a dangerous full-fledged wizard if he was already on the back foot on account of this small boy, albeit one who was staring daggers and advancing toward him in long strides, looking more menacing than any child had a right to. Either way he saw few paths to salvaging this introduction or any others from here, unless—

"Easy, Warlock," said Seraphinus from the fireplace, head poking between the bars. "He's safe. He's not a guild wizard, I checked." He promptly ducked back inside as the bottle-green cloak whipped past him, its wearer coming to a stop right beside Aziraphale where he sat.

"Hey. You're in my chair."

The boy was looming, waiting for Aziraphale to move. He was unusually gaunt for a child, with a quality of sullen disinterest even to his glare. Aziraphale did not have the best track record with children as it was; he'd always found them too sharp, too adept at seeing past artifice, completely disarming every one of his deflection tactics and much too unpredictable in their own right. Add magic and a dour temper to the mix and there was no telling what this one could do.

Aziraphale pulled himself gingerly to his feet, even more sore now than he was yesterday. His back cracked as he moved. He may have been able to get away with falling asleep studying in cramped little chairs once upon a time, but he was no longer twenty-two, and his body was catching up with him now in the most inconvenient ways. 

“Terribly sorry, young… Warlock, was it? Or is that a title of some sort?"

"It's my name." With an unspoken _obviously_ in his snide tone. 

"Right." Aziraphale grimaced. "Jolly good then." He was at a desperate loss for what to do next. Shake his hand and introduce himself? Ask the fire demon for a helpful explanation? Leave immediately out the front door and forget any of this ever happened, resign himself to a simple honest living in, where was he again, _Tadfield_ , somewhere?

Device cleared her throat from the doorway. "Okay. Obviously, this is a bad time, so I'm gonna come back later. I suggest you get all of…” she gestured loosely to the small congregation around the hearth, “…whatever this is... figured out before I do. Remind Crowley that I keep a bread knife on my person and I'm _also_ not above invoking the seal of my ancestral line to retrieve family property. Good? Thanks!"

She turned on her heels and strode off down the dirt road of the village, and with a scrape of stone against stone the door closed itself behind her.

"Goodness," said Aziraphale, taken aback. "Do you always get this much excitement first thing in the morning?"

Warlock shot him a sideways look. "That's none of your business, grandpa."

The fireplace made a stifled snapping noise like a poorly-contained giggle. “I wouldn’t necessarily put it like _that_ , but…” 

"Well then, if it's all the same," said Aziraphale, prickling, "I think I'm going to wait here until Crowley returns. He and I _do_ have business." Which was true, in a manner of speaking. He would have to spend some more time testing the limits of what he could and could not say. 

Warlock eyed him suspiciously, but shrugged. "Whatever. Just don't be a pest about it." He tossed his cloak back behind his shoulders and made his way over to the polished table. "And that means not messing with anything." He opened a drawer just beneath the tabletop, retrieving a segmented board and an assortment of intricately painted pieces for a game Aziraphale did not recognize, and brought the set back to his chair at the hearth.

Right. He could work with this.

* * *

After straightening out his sleep-rumpled coat, Aziraphale set to occupying his time puttering around the large perimeter of the room, to stretch his legs and get some of the creakiness out of his bones while also snooping a little closer at Crowley's minimal belongings. Warlock seemed content to ignore him, focused on his solitary game that he played by lazily waving his hand, making the pieces move of their own accord. 

The daylight pouring through the front window offered Aziraphale a better look at the interior of the castle than his cursory sweep from the night before, all but the deepest shadows having retreated into their corners and alcoves. There were a number of small storage nooks recessed into the grey stone walls at varying heights, most of which were empty, though he did find one containing a globe, one containing a lockbox, and one containing, strangely enough, a full watering pail. An experimental couple minutes of prodding for more hidden doors yielded a small lavatory and a well-organized broom cupboard of cleaning supplies.

He also found an entire sectioned-off area past a narrow gap in the wall that he had completely missed in the dark, a kitcheny sort of room with a trough-shaped wash basin set into the countertop, and a collection of cast-iron cookware hanging above it on hooks. The window above the basin looked out onto another view of Tadfield, this one facing away from the road and into the gardens of neighboring shops and cottages. He thought it a wonder that the castle hadn't trampled them. A live basil plant sat on the windowsill, with a few tiny delicate leaves of new growth beginning to emerge from freshly cut stems. It smelled lovely, and Aziraphale was just beginning to think about a long-overdue breakfast when there was another round of knocking at the front door, followed by a groan from Warlock.

"Kingsbury door!" announced Seraphinus, and Warlock dragged himself to his feet and back to the front hall. 

_Did_ Crowley have a presence in Kingsbury? Even living there all his life, Aziraphale had only ever heard his name invoked as hearsay from out beyond the city limits, the open hills and farmlands where the castle had space to roam. That Crowley apparently had doors opening up to the centers of villages and cities all over the country was news to him.

"Stand by," droned Warlock once again, and when he pushed the door open this time, Aziraphale watched through the kitchen window.

As though from the view of a carousel, the landscape outside the window whirled by in a dizzying circular rush, though aside from the shifting light the only indication of movement from inside the castle was the minute rustle of basil leaves and the gentle sway of hanging pots and pans. 

The scenery slowed and settled into place on a view of a tidy back courtyard, surrounded by buildings that to Aziraphale were immediately familiar. It was cool and drizzling in Kingsbury today.

A new voice came from the doorway, posh and elderly. "Excuse me, young master, is this the residence of the wizard Anthony Mayfair?"

Aziraphale inched further into the kitchen, retreating behind the dividing wall and out of sight. 

"Yes ma'am,” he could hear Warlock answer. “I am his apprentice and I speak on his behalf. How might I help you?"

"I bring word from Her Majesty about the ongoing proceedings for unification between the Morningstar Guild and the high crown. We are pleased to inform you that Wizard Anthony Mayfair has been selected for consideration to fill a seat on this new branch of Her Majesty's court, set to serve opposite the House of the Diocese as part of the new House of Arcana. Times are changing, young man. You and your master should be very proud."

"Thank you very much, I will pass this along. Do you also have this in writing?"

"I'm afraid not today. As of this morning the Kingsbury Post Service has been… ahem, _indisposed_. Dreadful infestation. Such a shame too, so many letters and parcels chewed clean through and destroyed…” The messenger clucked sadly as she trailed off. “Until further notice, all Royal or otherwise urgent business is to be conducted in person and all other service is suspended."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"As am I to report it. And as such, please note that Mayfair must also report in person to deliver his reply."

"I will inform him immediately. Have a good rest of your day ma'am, and stay dry."

"I shall, thank you kindly young dear."

And the door turned shut once more.

The moment he'd heard the name Anthony Mayfair, Aziraphale had known precisely where he was, and another glance outside at the surrounding buildings confirmed it. These were the signature archways and columns of Counsel Square, among which the Mayfair Practice stood out famously as a landmark for its smooth black-and-coral facade of Saint Laurent marble, in stark contrast to the rest of the quarter's classical white stone and gilded entablature. Aziraphale couldn't count the number of times he had walked past Mayfair's and wondered what type of practice lay within, somehow doubtful it was for a barrister or a private trade consultant like its neighbors. 

How strange to be standing inside it now, with that single question answered and so many more now in its place. 

"A fair bit more polite to that one, weren't you?" Aziraphale chided, poking out of the kitchen doorway while Warlock briskly retreated from the front door to throw himself back in his chair. 

“Yeah. See what happens when you're not a bossy witch?” said Warlock, returning unblinkingly to what he had been playing. "Or a nosy trespasser?" 

There was warning in that answer, so Aziraphale shelved his questions away for later and let him be. 

* * *

“Right, where was I? Ah yes, breakfast,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as he returned to survey the rest of the kitchen. “Dishes and silverware here… the icebox, oh splendid, there’s milk… ah, that is _quite_ the rack of wine. Tempting, but perhaps later.”

The larder, when he found it behind yet another stone panel, left something to be desired. There were rudimentary scratch ingredients sorted into sacks and jars, almost none of them labeled. Given time, a recipe, and skilled hands, Aziraphale was sure that some combination of them could come together into _something_ , and probably something quite delicious at that, but if he was honest, he had been looking for something simpler to work with, perhaps a loaf of bread or a basket of eggs. 

He did however spot cocoa powder and sugar, and he already knew where the milk was. That would do for a start. 

“I’m rather in the mood for some cocoa,” piped Aziraphale with renewed cheer as he brought the ingredients out to the hearth, fetching a spoon and saucepan as he went. “Seraphinus, would you be ever so kind as to help me make some?”

“Won't happen,” said Warlock, not looking up from his game board. “You can't cook here.”

“Nonsense. I've made this recipe many times, there's really nothing to it. Here, I'll show you."

"What he means is I won't do it," said Seraphinus with a smug flicker from the grate. "I don't reduce myself to being _cooked_ upon."

"Don't you now? Am I to believe then that Crowley feeds this growing boy here with raw flour and butter from the larder?” The demon’s flames wavered. Aziraphale hefted the sturdy saucepan in his hand with a self-satisfied smile. “Good, I didn’t think so. If you can cook for him you can do the same for me.” He considered how best to lay the pan over the low grate — it was a bit of an uneven surface and tricky to reach.

“I won’t do it! You have no command over me!” flared Seraphinus in protest, head reared back and mouth wide. 

“Shall I get the watering pail to cool you off then?” said Aziraphale with an air of thoughtfulness. “Or perhaps I’ll go back on our arrangement and you can toil away on this hearth for the rest of your days.”

The blazing mouth gave a weak cough of sparks. “Why, you… Oh, that’ll teach me to show a shred of hospitality ever again!” With an anguished sigh rather like the squeal of a deflating balloon, Seraphinus went limp and shifted to coil into a ring, just past the iron bars at the inner edge of the hearth. An even red heat seeped out between his black scales and licked upward into small flames. “Ugh. Do as you must.”

“You’re going to curl up nice and flat for me, if you please,” said Aziraphale, easily slotting the saucepan through the wide space between the bars. Seraphinus, seething and grumbling, tucked his head in beneath his coils as the pan was laid down. Aziraphale gave a satisfied hum. “ _There’s_ a good fire.” 

The display had even Warlock watching with wide eyes, tiles clattering onto the game board as his concentration broke.

Just as Aziraphale was getting the milk poured, the front door of the castle made a slow heavy grinding noise behind him, startling him into nearly spilling it. He peered backward over his shoulder to see it open, and in through the narrow gap of its revolution slip a man with wavy red hair and tinted glasses, clad in sleek black and silver finery. A vaguely familiar man that he couldn't quite place. Until all at once he did.

"It's _you_ ," Aziraphale sputtered, pivoting all the way round to face him and brandishing the stirring spoon. "You're that scoundrel from the stationery shop!" 

It was odd. Aziraphale had taken him for a young man from that brief glimpse back in Kingsbury, but here in the castle's stony grey light that sank deep into the lines on his face, there was no mistaking even with the opaque lenses obscuring his features that this was a man much closer in age to Aziraphale himself. It felt like something he wasn’t quite meant to see. The man quirked a curious eyebrow in Aziraphale's direction, then crossed the room in leisurely, swaying steps to the hearth.

“Nicely done, Warlock,” he said, eyeing the positions of the now-idle game pieces. “That’s a play I never would have thought of. Challenge me again sometime soon, yeah?”

“Sure.” Warlock’s voice held a warmth that Aziraphale had not heard until now.

“Now where’s — hold on.” The man tipped his lean body over the iron bannister to look into the fire pit. “Is that you under there, Seraphinus? Hah, I see our guest has already made himself right at home _and_ made you his personal stovetop! I'm impressed, not just anybody can do that." He drew back and bent his head to better address the demon coiled miserably beneath the pan of steaming milk. "Did _you_ let him in here?"

"I did _not_ ," came the muffled voice. "He just wandered in here from the hills."

"You really shouldn't talk about me as if I'm not right here," said Aziraphale, pointedly tapping the spoon on the edge of the saucepan. He fixed his eyes on the stranger. "You must be Crowley. Or, as you're supposedly known where I’m from, Anthony Mayfair? Or perhaps Jenkins?"

The man put a hand up. "Please, just Crowley inside the house. Anthony stays in Kingsbury, Jenkins stays in Tadfield, all work aliases stop at the door here." He hung his silken coat over the tall back of the throne before taking a slouched, sprawling seat across it himself, head propped up on one elbow, chin cradled in his palm. "And in the interest of reciprocity, what should I call you?"

"Aziraphale Arch." He nearly had a handle on saying it now without the sensation of it being pulled forcibly from his throat.

"Aziraphale," repeated Crowley, drumming long fingers over his own cheekbone. "The angel from the omitted verses?"

"I was named for him, yes."

“And Arch as in that family that runs the House of the Diocese?”

“The very same. Though, for what it's worth, I'm not myself involved in that particular family legacy.”

"Well then," said Crowley, tossing his head towards the hearth, "I hope it won't be a problem for you in that case, rubbing shoulders with a demon? Well, figurative shoulders. Do snakes have shoulders? Must not."

"Seraphinus and I are already well acquainted."

Crowley's face broke into a grin. "And what do you think?"

"He's a big baby, but a harmless one. Rather helpful in fact, when he cooperates. I have no objections."

There was an agitated spitting from the low flame beneath the saucepan. " _I should curse all your cocoa to curdle._ "

"Oh hush," said Aziraphale. He tipped in the cocoa powder and sugar, stirring until the scent of the steam rising from the milk became rich and sweet. "I'll be done with you in just a moment, do keep yourself together."

* * *

Aziraphale kept a cautious watch on Crowley while he removed the pan from the hearth and made to pour it into a mug. No sooner had he lifted it than Seraphinus unwound from beneath it with an ashy snort and promptly curled away under the grate to sulk. 

His expectations for the infamous wizard had been batted about in so many different directions over the course of this morning alone, and what's more, Crowley had gone entirely still and quiet, in the ridiculous position he held in that ridiculous chair. On account of the glasses, Aziraphale could not tell whether he was staring or sleeping, and either option was just as unsettling as the uncertainty.

It was Warlock who got him to stir a few minutes later, by way of prodding at his arm. "Hey, so there were two visits for you today already. First one was Device again."

"Mmph. Like clockwork," mumbled Crowley.

"And the second," said Warlock, "was about the Morningstar Guild. They're still talking about absorbing it into the queen's court, and they want to recruit you for it. I mean, Mayfair’s the one they actually want I guess, but yeah."

Crowley frowned. "Ergh, alright. I guess _that’s_ a thing now. I'll draft a letter for them."

“Um.” Warlock looked down at his feet. “So, they actually said you’ll have to respond in person. Something about an infestation shutting down the postal service."

The color left Crowley's face. Aziraphale, gingerly sipping his cocoa by the hearth, thought he suddenly looked very guilty.

"Nooooooooo," he groaned, tipping his head back. "Stupid… of all the outcomes — alright, I'll figure something out. Let’s put a pin in that for now." His attention turned to Aziraphale, brow still furrowed. "And what do _you_ need from me, while I'm asking? I assume you're here for a reason, anyway. Another request to pile on my plate?"

Aziraphale gulped. The sweet warmth of the cocoa suddenly felt cloying to the point of souring his stomach. He set the mug down, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Seraphinus, though he felt the demon's meaningful stare practically burning holes in the back of his head. 

"Ah, nothing quite of that sort." He would have to choose his words carefully. "I'm conducting a bit of research on magic, you see. Nothing for publication, mind you, merely a personal project. I'll need to stay here for a little while to make my observations." His tongue felt like a leaden warning in his mouth. He was skirting the line, he knew.

"Mm. Fine with me," said Crowley. His fingers were steepled, but his expression seemed to relax.

"But, I also couldn't help but overhear," said Aziraphale, pushing forward to get back on steadier conversational ground, "that Miss Device from this morning mention a book in need of repair?"

"Ah, yep,” said Crowley with an emphatic pop. “Book girl’s been hounding after those damages for weeks now. I keep _telling_ her I’ll get around to it, I’m just busy. What about it?”

Aziraphale stood up straighter, fiddling primly with his bow tie. “I happen to work with books, and I have some experience with book restoration in particular. Perhaps I might make myself useful to you whilst under your roof.”

“That witch is definitely on the verge of hexing you if you keep blowing her off,” Warlock added from the side, looking pointedly at Crowley. “Or at least stabbing you.”

“Fair play to her, really,” said Crowley with a conceding shrug. “In that case, Aziraphale, your help might just save my skin.”

“It would be the right thing to do, regardless.”

All the gravity that had Crowley sunk so deep into his heavy sprawl across the throne seemed to give way when Aziraphale spoke, and Crowley rose to his feet in an implausible twisting and straightening of long limbs. He stood with one hip cocked to the side, a hand in his pocket, and the other extended in an offered handshake.

“A true angel you are," he said through a pointy, lopsided smile. It rang both teasing and disarmingly sincere at once, an incongruence that Aziraphale filed away in his ever-growing list of curiosities about this strange, off-kilter man.

“Oh, you might wish to reserve judgment on that,” said Aziraphale, though he returned Crowley's smile and shook his hand nonetheless. “At least until I’ve eaten properly. I’m afraid I was quite terse with your fire demon back there.”

* * *

“Tell me, Crowley,” said Aziraphale over breakfast, having polished off a savory meat and cheese galette and moved to drizzling honey and dusting icing sugar over a sweet crepe full of strawberries, “What is it you _do_ exactly? You say you're so very busy it's got you falling behind, and I've gathered you run a business of _some_ sort out of this castle, but I'm afraid I can't make heads or tails of its function, or why it requires so many locations and aliases for that matter."

Seraphinus had adamantly refused to be cooked on again, his ego too bruised to bear relenting even for Crowley, so instead, Crowley had taken some coin and opened up the castle door to a bustling town a bit bigger than Tadfield but far smaller than Kingsbury, returning a quarter of an hour later with several brown paper packages that were stained translucent in spots with butter and bore the name Cesari's Bakery.

Crowley cracked a sly grin at Aziraphale's question, pushing his own barely-touched scone aside as he laid his elbows on the table. "Really. What is it _you_ think I do?"

"Well, that's just the thing, isn't it? I have precious little to go on apart from rumor. Just all sorts of confoundingly vague gossip about you and your treacherous, heartless wiles, how you're always on the move and up to no good wherever you go."

"But?"

"But — well, imagine my surprise then to see you with a prestigious office in Counsel Square, and being approached for a lofty new seat so near the crown at that. It makes one wonder how you garnered that sort of respect."

Crowley's grin sharpened, his fingers flicking absently at the baubled chain hanging from the arms of his glasses. "So you think a man can't squirm his way into power on sheer wickedness and sorcery. Is that it?"

"No, I wasn't finished," said Aziraphale. He folded his hands over his stomach. "Imagine then my even _further_ surprise to meet you at last. All I'd heard, leading me to expect my heart eaten or my soul traded away or something equally ghastly. And yet here you are, putting me up in your home, buying me breakfast, bringing up this rude but otherwise rather respectable young apprentice of yours with a nurturing touch.” He looked up from his crepe to see Warlock shoot him a venomous look across the table, and gave an indulgent smile back. “It doesn't quite add up, does it?"

The lines of Crowley's mouth drew together. "Could still be a trick, for all you know," he retorted with a tilt of his head.

"Quite possibly. There is still every chance I could wake up as a duck tomorrow morning and be roasted over the fire by tea time. But given what I’ve seen thus far, I would wager much better odds on you simply having a decent streak. Every so often, just for the sake of it, being _nice_."

"M'not," protested Crowley, taking the opportunity to stuff the rest of the neglected scone into his mouth. A petulant and gravely underfed red squirrel came to mind.

"Oh don't worry, I won't go so far as to accuse you of running an _honest practice_. False names aside, if what I witnessed at the stationery shop is any indication, that is undoubtedly asking too much. But still rather more mundane low-grade fiendishness than I had been led to believe."

Crowley scoffed, and immediately swore at the undignified shower of crumbs that followed. He dismissed them into thin air with a wave of his hand and finished chewing and swallowing in pointed, scowling silence. Aziraphale stifled a laugh behind his napkin. 

"Let's just move along on the premise that you saw none of that," Crowley said, just as Aziraphale was finishing his own final bites and clearing his throat to thank him for the meal. "I've still got a reputation to maintain, after all." And before Aziraphale could press any further, Crowley was standing and gathering up all the twine and empty paper packaging from the bakery to toss onto the fire, a few pastries left unopened on the table for later. "Now! Shall we pivot to that mending project?"

Aziraphale sighed in frustration. It was not lost on him that Crowley had thoroughly dodged his original question. Seemed he was just as slippery as that sleek outerwear made him look. In spite of himself, Aziraphale would let it go this tim, if only because breakfast had indeed rather softened his mood. Besides, by now he was much more interested in immersing himself in at least _some_ semblance of his old work for a taste of routine and normalcy than attempting in vain to wring answers out of cagey strangers all day.

"Very well. Show it to me, please?"

* * *

He didn't have to go far, as Crowley quickly led him around to another side of the same table they had just been sitting at, and pulled open a well-hidden drawer.

Inside sat a hefty old book, bound in a deep blue-green cover with gold-embossed lettering, reading _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. Aziraphale gasped when he saw the title, recognizing it from many an auction where rare book dealers, himself among them, entertained fruitless hopes of one day discovering a copy. It was the holy grail of prophetic books and the white whale of every enthusiast who collected them. This could very well be the only copy in the world, and here it was squirreled away in Wizard Crowley's desk, looking like it had suffered some sort of high-speed collision, at a guess. 

One corner of the cover was entirely crushed in, the pages at that corner bent every which way. The poor spine was in tatters, the cloth binding frayed where it had separated from the glue, and the many loose pages that had detached from it were held in place — in what Aziraphale could only hope was the correct order — with clothes pegs. 

“Good lord,” he said, his heart fairly breaking for the thing. And, with a further pang of regret, for his own treasured books of prophecy that felt even further beyond restoration. “I can see why Miss Device was so upset. Tsk, the _state_ of this. Dare I even ask what the so-called _incident_ was?”

“I’ll leave her to tell her side of the story,” said Crowley. "That's a semantic argument I've accepted I'm not winning." He rubbed the back of his neck. “You _can_ fix it, right?”

“If you’ll believe it, I have seen worse, so yes. I can.” Aziraphale peered further into the drawer. “Although,” he said, “I hope you realize I can’t very well do anything with my bare hands. I’ll need materials and a workspace.” 

“Oh. Right. Erm, yeah, okay. If you can write me up a list of everything you’ll need, I can get it for you by tomorrow.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Not that I’m in the business of telling you how to do your job, Crowley, but are you _certain_ this is really the easier way? Surely you have a spell that could get this looking good as new in minutes, if even that.”

“Not with the kind of finesse this calls for,” said Crowley. “Broad strokes are one thing. You get a whole load of, let's say, rats, together in the same place under a basic one-phrase command, and that’s all those rats worth of manpower — rat power? — at your fingertips for a versatile spell you can memorize. _This_ ,” he went on, gesturing at the book, “is all different materials and fiddly little details. You’d have to sit down and write at _least_ a 40-line original spell from scratch to account for all the specifics, pray it works, bang your head against the wall tweaking and rewriting it until it does, and then never use it again because it’s so specialized it only works on one thing.”

“Hm. I see," said Aziraphale. 

It was intriguing. He had never heard magic described quite that way before, as something so tangible and scholarly and prone to mundane error. It occurred to Aziraphale that the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the arcane disciplines had never come up learning about them in the abstract, not once among all those passages and lectures all about _hubris_ and _playing god_. 

“Makes it sound like actual work, doesn’t it?” said Crowley. “Yeah, that’s a freebie on magic for you: much better off leaving this kind of delicate work to a proper hands-on expert. If you know what you’re doing here I guarantee it’ll be both better and faster than anything I could manage. Also, I _do_ just have to point out that taking this on was your idea.”

Aziraphale looked self-consciously down at his feet. He hadn’t noticed he’d been swiveling in place. His nervous habits had never been subtle. “Yes, well. I’ll do what I can.” 

With a flash of teeth, Crowley took his coat from the back of the throne. “Brilliant,” he said cheerfully, “always love to hear an optimist.” Pulling it on and fastening the upper buttons so the coat hung loose over his shoulders, he looked over at the door, which Warlock had begun setting back to Kingsbury. "Shouldn't be out too long, just got an infestation to call off. Possibly some postal fees to smooth over, all depending."

When the view out the front window shifted once again to the streets of Kingsbury, the panes were instantly and loudly pelted with driving rain, startling Aziraphale from resuming his close examination of the book. 

"Gracious," he murmured, clutching his hand over his heart.

"Whooo-ee," agreed Crowley. "It was not coming down like _that_ earlier." He looked down at the lush black-and-silver fabric of his coat, brushed and picked at it with his fingers. "Ngh, really should have waterproofed this."

Aziraphale had a thought. "Just one moment," he said, and hurried to his trunk where it lay by the door. He muttered off a checklist of his belongings under his breath as he rummaged through it, taking care not to disturb the satchel that held his books of secrets. "Aha, there it is."

He pulled a long white umbrella up from where it lay wedged at the bottom of his trunk, shaking a stray sock off the crook end of its handle. He turned it over in his hands, smoothed out a wrinkle in the lace trim, and handed it to Crowley with a wordless nod.

For just an instant, before Crowley matched Aziraphale's nod and took it, Aziraphale saw his face gone slack with surprise, dark brows winged high over the frames of his glasses. And then the expression was tucked away again, swept back into the hood of Crowley's coat as he shadowed his face with it and turned towards the door. He held the umbrella Aziraphale had given him so delicately in both hands, with the very tips of his long fingers.

"Warlock?" said Crowley in an airy, distant voice, his back to the room, "See about maybe getting Seraphinus in a good enough mood to cook dinner later. Maybe bribe him with some spiced firewood." 

"Got it,” said Warlock around a mouthful of eclair, having circled around to the baked goods again for seconds. 

“Good, knew I could count on you.” There was a pause. Then, Crowley spoke once more, just before stepping out through the open door and into the rain, opening Aziraphale’s umbrella as he went: "Right, so the book, and all further dealings with the witch, then? I leave in your capable hands, angel."


End file.
